


Enervate

by Sedentarycore



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedentarycore/pseuds/Sedentarycore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fortress Maximus and Red Alert have a chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enervate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meat/gifts).



Roboids. The name should be banned. Fortress Maximus growled, rubbing his left hand along his face-- bitterness making his thoughts fanciful-- as the groves in his well-formed hand scrapped and scratched the formerly smooth surface. The innocuousness alone was just cause.

The designation didn’t sound like the atrocity it epitomized. Instead of matching the appropriate description, the brand more closely resembled a title a person might find on a video game. One of those free organic made ones with the loud noises, ridiculous names, and the brightly hued colors they seemed to favor assigning to whatever nonsense they labeled as ‘entertainment’ that Kick-Off would download onto his communicator during off-shift. Max had never grasped his subordinates love for the games, but as Warden he had wholly recognized the need to ease the tension observing so many high profile prisoners unavoidably built, and had left to it.

It was strange, looking back on those days now. Max often found himself doing it: ruminating, reminiscing. On good days finding a peculiar sort of serenity in moments that had meant nothing to him then, and often feeling like a mech beyond his years in the process. He hadn’t known then that he would miss the rhythmic tapping of swift deft fingers against durasteel or the obnoxiously cheerful music abruptly silenced and trailed by mortified apologies. Or even that one day he would feel a surge of irrational resentment towards a despicable excuse of a mech for conferring a name on something that would remind him of Before, and threaten to taint the memory of a friendly-- if distractible-- monoformer.  Someone who had done his duty by the badge by mere association. Kick-off’s memory warranted more than that. They all did.

Living in an enclosed location with bored detention officers-- who spread gossip more quickly in an hour’s worth of down-time than the scientist Brainstorm had created weapons of morally equivocal nature in a month-- Max had picked up his share of second hand knowledge of his mechs, and as a supervisor he had felt it his duty to have a workable knowledge of their strengths and weakness. But, as a rule, Max had never been the most social of mechs.

Introverted by nature-- and too busy with advancement and proving himself as a warborn to be just as useful as those who had been in the conflict since it’s onset besides-- he hadn’t taken the time to truly acquaint himself with those under him. A fact he had started to regret after the fall of Garrus 9, and privately mourn during his time on the Lost Light.

High command–Prowl, in particular– had proven through inaction how little any of the individual cogs had meant to the greater autobot machine; so, given the time to organize his thoughts, he had drawn up a list from memory, then cross-checked the names to ensure no mech had been left behind. (He had been pleased to note that not a one had been missing, his memory circuits proved operational.) Max researched the facts of their lives, and dedicated each line of anything he could find-- mission files, official correspondence, and most informative of them all, Autopedia-- to his neural cortex. And then, with more than a little trepidation, he had called the wreckers.

Surprisingly-- considering all the rumors and suspicious situations that positively reeked of High command involvement that surrounded him-- Roadbuster had, once he’d been patched through by a diminutive station manager named Hubcap, been a blessing. Warm and kind, the veteran commando had seemed to sense and taken the time to talk him through the initial anxiety. It had been a very welcoming experience as they waited for the wreckers who, unlike Roadbuster, had been present for that fateful mission.

He would never wish Overlord on anyone; however, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he could acknowledge that a small but highly selfish part of him found it unfortunate that Roadbuster hadn’t been in that particular lineup-- as he would have had the privilege of avoiding the graphic descriptions of bodily damage and mimicked sound effects that had been cheerfully provided by a charming fellow by the name of Guzzle. Half way through the description of Kick-off’s mangled corpse, Maximus had attached the memories and faces to the injuries-- the description had been one which had finally prompted him to terminate the call. He had been saddened to learn that Kick-off had been a gladiator champion-- which could only mean he had been forced to battle his fellow inmates with the promise of a “reward” dangled in front of him, only to learn he was expected to either commit suicide or battle Overlord as part of his sick sense of humor. If Guzzle was correct, Kick-Off had elected to go down fighting Overlord himself. While a part of him was proud of his mech for his bravery in the face of an impossible choice, he could only hope Overlord had not been in a playful mood.

He’d spent the rest of his cycle downloading some tasteless organic game in Kick-off’s honor, battling miniaturized fictional enemies and unwanted pop up ads. Too many unsolicited ads, he honestly couldn’t see the appeal of playing these games when the immersion was interrupted by annoying flashing images following every level up or loss. After a particularly problematic pop up advertising Taxxon pornography, he’d been subjected to his very first Roboid commercial.

Toys, the ads had called them, and the cheaper among them had been legitimately that. But a Cybertronian accustomed with working and interacting with cold-constructed mecha learned to spot the understated differences between automated lifeless metal and circuitry that contained a living spark.

To his later discontent, Fortress Maximus hadn’t immediately recognized what he had been looking at. The pop up had only been distinguishable to him for what it wasn’t, and at the time he’d been too grateful for the lack of salacious material dedicated to myriapod invertebrates to notice what was being sold. It wasn’t until the fourth time he’d seen the same message splayed across his screen that he thought there might have been more to it than an artless toy advertisement, and the seventh before he’d identified one of the eight mechanisms advertised as an actual Cybertronian.

He had stiffened then. The way they had been touched. Manhandled. _Fondled._ On a toy these were normal exaggerated actions written into the script to show how deeply the consumer had enjoyed their purchase. But on a person. Oh primus, _on a person_ , it had brought back memories. Memories of dark hands grasping at him, not to injure. No. More pain would come later. It was not time for that. Fortress Maximus had been stubborn again and tried to take the fun away so now was time to play, to play pretend at niceties that could never be held within that pitiless red gaze-- that had assessed him and eternally found him wanting. He wanted to say he didn’t care what the other thought of him-- that he was beyond the reproach of his jailer-- but his mind was tired, so tired of fighting, wanted to believe…

He swung his fist out when he felt the touch-- smooth and deceptively gentle on his left hand-- and the world flashed into brilliant effervescent life as the datapad was thrown against the wall with enough force to shatter it. Fort Max had flung all his weapon systems online, the smell of fuel and death screaming in his senses, before taking stock of his environment. He in-vented carefully then, and slowly deactivated them. No mech had touched him. He was free.

No one would touch him without his permission.

He took his findings to Red directly, and, with the former Lost Light security chief’s assistance, he had rediscovered the lengths to which Decepticons were willing to go in the pursuit of their own self-interest. If he’d been religious, he might have thought what happened was a sign from Primus pointing him on a divinely ordained mission or perhaps a message from beyond the grave from Kick-off and his fallen mecha if he’d been Drift-- but Fort Max was neither.

All he’d felt at the time was sick and disoriented, his body alive with a heated angry pulse that throbbed in tempo with his spark and his brain module-- less like an emotional response and more like someone had performed an incomplete triple-tap without his knowledge and he had somehow miraculously survived. Alive, but far from unscathed. Red Alert had luckily noticed, and had hurriedly removed energon from his subspace-- successfully interrupting him from his own thoughts with the offered cube. A terse voice informed him of the beverage’s name and the exact ingredients that had been used to make it in tones so much softer than the usual perfunctory glyphs he had come to link with Red Alert. Fortress Maximus had gratefully accepted it from him with shaky hands.

It had been mid-grade, of a fashion. Sour-- almost medicinal in taste. It took a moment for his taste buds to adjust to the acidic bite of the fuel, and it was then that he noticed the tiny rounded rocks Red had referred to as crystalized bryozoans floating freely in the drink-- the gelatinous crystals dark brown in color, showing clear signs of fermentation; and, after a moment of chewing, ultimately proved sweet. Maximus had lifted an inquiring eye to his benefactor at the unlikely combination.

“There was a large specialty store chain I would visit on occasion back in Rhodion,” Red Alert explained. “Entire aisles had been dedicated to unique flavors, and it proved a helpful feature when purchasing blends of varying essences to prevent the enquiring from predicting my preferred drink-- and possibly using the knowledge at an inopportune moment.”

He did not comment further and Fort Max had realized that had been Red’s way of admitting that this specific beverage was his favorite, and that the other mech was more than a little self-conscious about it.

“A pity you couldn’t have picked this up more often then.” He replied, finding his voice at last, though the words sounded hoarse, even to his own audials. “I’m surprised this even survived the war.”

The implied question hadn’t been particularly subtle, but he was in need of a distraction and the words had left him curious. He had never known Rhodion. The city had fallen to the Decepticons before his batch code had been put to use; however, he could detect none of the telltale thickness nor the chemical flavorings the Autobot military typically employed to mask the acrid taste of the preservatives that helped prevent energon curdling. The crystals had been fermented but this was a common additive in high-grade fuel-- on its own it was not strong enough to cause inebriation in even a minibot-- but he did note the calming effects with appreciation. Had Red Alert made this? The other mech hardly seemed the type, but he realized with a start then that he didn’t really know much about Red Alert beyond designation and reputation.

“The old recipe did not.” The sentence was blunt and matter-of-fact, but the larger mech thought he could detect a trace of wistfulness in the otherwise dry words. A corner of Red’s mouth ticked up a near millimeter, an indicator of his pleasure. “But it seems certain members of the Circle of Light have attempted to replicate the original with varying results.”

Max only nodded at that. He had known about the existence of the vendors, of course. While the members of the commune traded evenly enough among themselves-- giving leeway for the occasional squabble that required intervention from himself or more frequently one of the group’s senior members-- they had etched a steady income out of marketing to tourists, and their former home had once been a Galactic council approved vacation destination spot. A rare privilege for mechanical lifeforms, he was told. It had been the only one of its kind.

The discovery had surprised him at first. But he reasoned that if Swerve-- who had only been a practicing bartender for a few months from what he’d gathered-- could have already created a pick-me-up that he felt merited a paten and have it approved-- because he highly doubted Ultra Magnus would allow the boisterous bartender to make such a claim for the sole purpose of fleecing patrons on high-grade, even if it had tasted awfully similar to a polonium spritzer he’d once sampled at The Blue Deployer--then he could more than believe, with all the time the conscientious objectors had spent cloistered away from the war before Tyrest had gotten his claws on them, that some members may have found ways to fruitfully occupy themselves with their more secular pursuits in between gatherings.

In retrospect, the fact that the commune had been fairly well-known had likely aided the credibility of Ultra Magnus’ claim that the Lost Light had been on a religious pilgrimage-- despite the fact that both faction leaders were avowed atheists-- and many tended to follow by example, which the organics had ostensibly found significant. The war hadn’t been good for church enrollment, and the few that had remained devout were prone to undergoing a crisis of faith as it became considerably more challenging to follow a religion when someone-- who by all rights should be a being whose very existence carried theological implications-- politely affirmed that he believed in exactly none of it. Or, if you were Decepticon, you were violently murdered in whatever creative method the DJD felt like unleashing on the very few who still looked upon religion as a source of comfort. So, despite the helm-aches and massive workload the enterprise had caused for him, he felt somewhat grateful to the deceased Dai Atlas for permitting the commerce to exist.

It had not been an easy assignment. Having no outstanding background in fuel preparation, he had been required to call in specialists when he’d learned they had created their own fuel-- which was to be shipped out and consumed by other mechanicals on the galactic standard, or sold as novelty items to curious organics who wanted to own materials made by genuine Cybertronian servos (the purpose of which he still didn’t fully comprehend; why buy sustenance if you’re never going to consume it?). Though he had sorted through his fair share of the ornamental highly fragile crystal containment vials that had been heated and spun into ornate shapes that vaguely resembled ancient weaponry he’d first seen in the confiscated weapons locker to check the expiration dates, and had separated for examination those he found in question. That had been the one aspect of his community cleanup project where he hadn’t intimately overseen every aspect of the process. He hadn’t actually consumed any of what had been produced either, as he preferred to follow procedure and leave the majority of the details to those who knew what they were doing while he oversaw their efforts.

Maximus had personally cross-checked the licensing of everyone operating officially to ensure everything had been in order, and fined the few who weren’t; but, for the most part, they had all been in compliance and he’d only been required to make two arrests.

The first, a drunken Ammonite, who had seemingly opted out of the business with Shockwave and, along with the more accommodating members of his gestalt, had survived an event that had nearly brought the species to extinction.

When asked to submit to official inquiry the significantly smaller bot had taken exception to an authority figure from a race he held personally responsible for the decimation of his faction and had come out guns blazing. Not being in the mood to use extreme force against someone who had been so recently unlawfully incarcerated by Tyrest had left him in need of repair, and Red Alert had taken it upon himself to read him a fine lecture on the topic of underestimating one’s enemies-- especially someone from a diminutive species that clearly knew how to use their size to their benefit, if the state of his leg cables were any indication.

Fortress Maximus hadn’t bothered to correct his fellow autobot to inform him it had been hesitance-- not overconfident miscalculation-- that had resulted in his injuries. His companion’s ire had been clearly fueled by concern, concern for him, and Max had been touched. Letting his smaller compatriot vent while the medic worked over his damaged struts had been a small price to pay and he’d quietly resolved to show less lenience towards perpetrators in the future.

The second was another Ammonite, and a gestalt mate to the first. Thankfully the affair hadn’t proved quite as dramatic, the tiny combiner had attempted to bribe him, and he’d ended up handcuffed and on his way to a holding cell thirty minutes after the offer had been made.

The other four members of the Stentarian squad had luckily kept their collective heads down after that and hadn’t given him cause to censure, so he had publicly permitted them to go about their business, and privately had Red keep tabs on them. Friendships and factional loyalty were strong enough motivators for trouble-making on their own, throw in the mystery of gestalt bonds, and it seemed an act of foolishness not to have them at least partially supervised.

Next had come the safety inspections, which had again resulted in another round of fines, and one proprietor losing his licensing; but everything else had gone smoothly-- barring the occasional raised voice, rolled optic, and rude hand gesture made in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking. It felt good to have his new home organized to both Autobot military and GC-approved standards, and he made no attempt to hide it. He imagined his predecessor would have been very proud.

So, Maximus had known about it. He’d even known Red had been spending his off-periods within the commune. It made sense that a mech with Red Alert’s probing mind would take it upon himself to investigate the religious cultists that had also come to call this moon their home, so he had not questioned it.

But it hadn’t really occurred to him that Red’s time among them would be in any way…  _ diverting in nature. _ He had sensed a kindred spark in the smaller mech before him, and had thought he too would be applying himself only to what had been called for to successfully complete the mission and nothing more. The fact that he’d been wrong about that-- that his only company on this base had been basking in pre-war nostalgia without him, left him feeling oddly bereft. And with his emotions already tossed,  the act felt more significant than he believed was ever intended.

Abandoned. Alone. Darkness smothering all the life around him. Crying out as pain and an all too active imagination chased each other into madness. Burning optics red as his own watching him. Heartfelt relief when he was visited by someone. Anyone. Even his jailer was better than none at all. A smile in the dimness. White liplates that appeared so soft should not be on one so cruel.

Max started shaking, and he started for the door. He didn’t want to stay yhere. Not when someone else was trapped there with him. He didn’t want to be alone. He remembered what happened last time. It wouldn’t,  _ couldn’t happen again _ . He hoped he could find his way back to his quarters through the winding tunnels that made up their home without meeting anyone.

A dark hand almost wrapped itself around his arm, and he’d stricken at it. He’d missed, but only just. He froze. Fortress Maximus’ optics had traced that hand down to meet the firm sturdy figure of Red Alert, who was frowning at him. His faceplates began burning with a pounding internal heat. His internal fans clicked on, attempting to give him some respite, where none could be had.

“Fortress Maximus.“ The voice, though soft, was commanding for one so small. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

It was phrased like a question, but Maximus wasn’t sure if it was. It might have been, but he wasn’t in the right mood to be parsing Red’s words for hidden meanings. He brought the arm he’d raised to strike at his companion down slowly and clutched his servos behind his back to place his body at a parade rest. It was the standing position he’d always felt most comfortable in. It brought little comfort now, but it was familiar and he was willing to accept what he could.

“Perhaps I’m not qualified for this,” he admitted. It stung. Finally voicing a phrase he had often thought to himself, but had never spoken out loud. He resisted the urge to shutter his optics as he gazed at the datapad he’d broken and thought of how he’d overreacted to something as simple as a drink his fellow Autobot had shared with him. His moods were too mercurial-- too tightly strung-- a wound ball of electric cabling hooked to a power coupling a ready to snap. He didn’t want to be like this.

Red Alert frowned at him. "Why do you say that?”

“I have Shellshock, Red.“ Max sighed, finally offlining his optics. He didn’t want to explain the obvious. He hoped the security officer wouldn’t make him explain the obvious.

He’d beaten Overlord. He’d won. Only. Months had passed. It didn’t seem like he had now.

“I’m aware.” Red Alert responded, confusion still in his tone and Max had sighed. “I’ve known others who have had it too. They may have needed to steer clear of certain missions but they were all fully capable upstanding autobots.”

Max had frowned at this, not quite trusting himself with words. Red’s words contrasted with the stories he’d heard of Shellshocked veterans. Namely, that they’d been a collection of unemployed, drug-addled, violent sociopaths who suffered under monumental suicide rates and subsisted as best they could in an isolated criminal NAIL subculture-- if they didn’t slip into outright Decepticonism-- forgotten by family, friends, and the military they served. He couldn’t say he’d much experience with dealing with them. He had been a warden of a high security penitentiary, not a psych ward. His experiences of those that had been sentenced to Garrus 9 had taken a more negative spin, but he had always secretly hoped the behaviors of Autobot prisoners weren’t indicative of what the general faction was like under a thin veneer of easily stripped away civility. He wanted to be proven wrong, and not just for selfish reasons either.

"We have a medical board.” Red Alert frowned, something tense and unreadable was working under his face plates. “They were determined fit for duty, their files are on Autopedia if you’re not inclined to believe me.”

“Medical board?” Max nearly laughed, bitterness coloring his voice. He could check out the validity of Red’s claims later, but for the moment his concerns were more personal. “Red, I wasn’t cleared!” They’d practically shoved him out the door, eager as they were to be rid of him.

“Rodimus may have come up with the idea, but Rung did your psych evaluations, and Ratchet signed off on them, Maximus,“ Red Alert reminded him gently. "Ultra Magnus read what was written and made an educated administrative decision that you were a worthy and capable successor.”

Max outright snorted. There were many things he disagreed in principle regarding his predecessor’s methods, and that was one of them. At no point had he presumed he could ever be a suitable replacement for the legendary “immortal lawman”.

“We are speaking of Ratchet.” Red said dryly, misunderstanding the direction Fortress Maximus’ thoughts had taken. “If he didn’t believe you were capable, our esteemed CMO would have murdered them in their berths with his wrench.”

The statement was said with such conviction, Fort Max had been unable to prevent the amused smirk from forming on his face. If even half the rumors were true about the erstwhile old medic, he could very well see something similar happening. Nothing so extreme as actual murder, but a little light mutilation seemed right up his alley.

“You can decide to take on a mission or not, that’s your call,“ Red said firmly, and held up a finger as he continued. "But remember, no matter what your choice, remember this one thing: You are the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, and you will remain the Enforcer until you decide you’re not.”

“You sound so certain.” It was odd to have Red Alert as the confident one. Among the two of them it was normally Fort Max.

“I’m more certain about you than I am about most things.” Red Alert said in a voice so low Maximus almost hadn’t heard him. He stared, and continued to stare until his companion had averted his gaze. Red Alert had trouble trusting others, and only a few people passed his suspicious attitude towards them. “We’re partners,” Red said, as if that explained everything. 

Maybe it did.

“Here’s the plan: If something sounds out of place to you, let me know. You will continue in your position as long as you see fit and will attend therapy sessions with the psychologist of your choosing.” Blue optics glanced up at his, then pulled away sharply-- their bright flare dimmed and vaguely self-conscious. “If you’d prefer, we could share sessions. I… I am amenable to the arrangement.”

Maximus hadn’t known how to respond. No one had extended the offer to him before.

“Why?“ He  asked simply. Feeling lost, he stared down at the mech before him.

Red Alert had flinched and Max had realized he said the word with more force than he’d intended-- confusion making his speech harsh.

"Why are you being so kind?” He amended.

“I’ve… left some things unresolved.” Red Alert admitted, after a long pause. “You could say it’s long overdue.”

‘ _ I need help too. Perhaps we can find it together. ‘  _ It was with certainty that was what he meant. Fort Max stared at the mech, feeling his spark contract with an unnamed emotion. Red Alert didn’t think him less for needing help. Instead, he’d wanted to go with him. He could imagine them then, a support duo, helping each other through panic attacks or just a fearful night. He shuddered.

Needing to grasp at something real-- something genuine-- Fortress Maximus touched then slowly began to envelope the other mech’s servo with his left hand, leaving time for him to pull away if his touch was not welcome. There was power in this hand easily four times smaller than his own. He needed it, but would not press if it was not consensual.

Startled, Red Alert had looked up at him, then down at the fingers touching his own-- biting his liplates with enough force to dent. Max had thought he would pull away, before Red had wrapped his fingers around his in return-- heated metal warm and gentle.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a friend

The funny thing about emotions: they were seldom logical and it took precious effort for the conscious mind to unpack the contrary signals and decide for itself which were valid and deserving of response, and which were not , while it decided how it should react-- and why the alarm bells continued to wreak havoc on internal stability. By funny, he meant that it was not funny at all and if it were a person telling him all that this one minor act supposedly signified he would have been strongly tempted  to shoot them-- consequences be damned. He was not going to be abandoned. No matter what his fears said, this was not the hallmark of some tragedy that would befall him at a later date. It was just a drink, and he was fine.

Honestly his own internal anxieties were crueler than Whirl-- but it made him think. He hadn’t interacted much with anyone beyond what was required. He had been worried that if he pushed himself too far, too fast, he might see a repeat of what had occurred on the Lost Light--  _ and that was to be avoided at all costs _ . Maybe, if it bothered him to be left behind, he could ask Red to bring him along next time.

If he ever got the courage to do so, he hoped the other mech would agree.

Several long moments had passed while Maximus focused his energy reserves on just finishing the drink before him and Red Alert optics had alternated between his companion and the computer terminal-- his gaze alit with uncertainty. When Fort Max had finally quietly informed his fellow Luna One occupant that he believed the Roboid issue fell well within his duties as the duly appointed enforcer, Red Alert had gently-- but firmly-- agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> This was longer. Unfortunately I typed this up on a cellphone, got the notes I was using mixed up, then(among other complications) accidentally deleted some of it. I'm sorry you were assigned me, but please accept this fic: http://decepticonsensual.tumblr.com/post/148315621398/charity-fic-2-fort-max-x-red-alert  
> as an apology.


End file.
